Apollo's Seed

by Anne Mather

  ‘And so am I,’ exclaimed Martha sincerely, ashamed of the impatient note in her voice. She was letting other circumstances influence her mood, and it wasn’t fair to take her frustration out on her sister.

  Nevertheless, aside from the daunting prospect of having to tell Roger she had failed in her mission, she had still the problem of her encounter with Dion to relate. She did not look forward to confiding her mistakes to Sarah, and she did not know how she was going to explain that faltering confession without admitting the methods he had used to gain the information. What he intended to do with his knowledge she dared not contemplate, and she wished she had someone stronger than herself, to whom she could turn in times of trouble.

  Roger arrived while they were having their meal. Martha had opened a tin of soup to supplement the bacon and eggs, and he sniffed appreciatively when he put his head round the kitchen door. Tall and angular, with the loose-limbed ungainliness of an excess of height, Roger Scott looked every inch the absent-minded professor. He had straggly red hair above horn-rimmed spectacles, a long nose, and a wide, thick-lipped mouth, and he was one of the cleverest people Martha had ever met. He taught mathematics and economics at the university, and a more unlikely combination would be hard to find for someone steeped in ancient history, and fascinated by any kind of archaeological exploration.

  ‘Hi,’ he grinned, levering himself through the opening. ‘Something smells good. Hello, Martha. You’re back, I see.’ He paused, regarding each of them in turn. ‘What’s wrong? Do I detect a note of despondency about the camp?’

  Martha sighed, and then gave him a rueful smile. ‘Won’t you sit down, Roger? Have some soup. It’s chicken, and there’s plenty.’

  ‘If you insist.’ Roger put down the books he was carrying, and adjusted his long legs under the table. ‘Hi, Josy. What a pleasure to see your face clean again. And Sarah! Had any good rows recently?’

  ‘Be quiet, Roger!’ exclaimed Sarah irritably, and he transferred his attention to Martha, ladling soup into a bowl.

  ‘Did you open the tin yourself?’ he enquired, with wry humour, and she felt her smile appearing again in his uncomplicated company.

  ‘If you don’t want it…’ she challenged, setting the bowl down before him, and he hedged it about with his arm, as if defending all comers. Josy giggled, and even Sarah’s features relaxed a little, and Martha resumed her seat, wishing she had some good news to give him. But even had Aristotle been prepared to agree, she doubted he could have done so without Dion’s permission, and that was something she would never ask for.

  Roger spooned soup into his mouth, and Martha and Sarah exchanged glances. It wasn’t fair to keep him in suspense, and pushing her own dish aside, Martha told him she had wasted his money.

  ‘It’s no use,’ she said, moving her shoulders regretfully. ‘The island’s sacrosanct. They’ll never agree to let anyone excavate there.’

  Roger rested his elbows on the table and gave a grunt of resignation. ‘Well, it was worth a try,’ he remarked, attacking his teeth with a thumbnail. ‘You can’t be sure of anything until you try, can you, Martha?’

  She didn’t know why, but that sounded remarkably more than just a rhetorical question. Yet, before she could make any response, he had turned to Josy again, teasing her about her boy-friends missing her at play school, asking Sarah whether she had found the time to read the article about paraplegics he had saved for her. When next he looked at Martha, his eyes were wide and innocent behind the thick lenses, and she wondered if she had mistaken the curiously loaded accent of his comment.

  When the meal was over, Sarah offered to supervise Josy’s bath while Roger helped her sister with the washing up. Martha thought, rather wryly, that she had hardly had her hands out of water since she arrived home, but she was glad of the opportunity to explain more fully to Roger that she had done her best to help him.

  ‘I’m sure you did,’ he agreed, agilely catching the slippery plate that almost fell out of his big hands. ‘I guessed it was an unlikely venture, but there was always a chance he might do it for you.’

  ‘For me!’ Martha shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m persona non grata so far as the Myconos family is concerned. You knew that before I went.’

  ‘Did I?’ Roger regarded the tea-cloth thoughtfully. ‘It occured to me that time might have mellowed old scars. Absence, and all that. Still, it wasn’t your husband you went to see, was it? It was his father.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The word was clipped, and Roger glanced at her sideways.

  ‘What’s up? Don’t tell me you saw Dionysus I Is that why you gave me such a funny look at the table, when I made that comment about not being sure of anything?’

  ‘I—gave you a funny look!’ echoed Martha disbelievingly, and Roger nodded.

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, well, I thought you did.’ Roger shrugged and picked up another plate. ‘It was just an idea I had.’ He paused. ‘So—am I right? Did you see your husband? Or did he resist the temptation to view the heavenly body?’

  ‘Roger!’

  ‘Well!’ Roger was unrepentant. ‘You do have a heavenly body. Or you would have, if you weren’t so damned skinny. So—what happened? Did you realise what you’d been missing all these years?’

  ‘I haven’t said Dion was there!’

  ‘But he was, wasn’t he? Oh, Martha, your face gives you away every time.’

  Martha flushed. ‘Well, it wasn’t like that anyway.’

  ‘Like what? You realising you’d done the wrong thing by leaving him?’

  ‘Roger, I don’t really think this is any of your business!’

  It’s not.’ He grimaced. ‘But you have no one else, do you? Except Sarah. And she’s biased enough, as it is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Roger sighed, and allowed the plate he had just dried to settle on the rest of the pile. Then, half reluctantly, he said: ‘You know.’

  ‘I don’t. How could I? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, come on…’ Roger pushed his spectacles up his nose, in a curiously boyish gesture. ‘You know how Sarah feels about your husband.’

  ‘Oh, that, yes. She never liked him, if that’s what you mean. But then Dion never liked her.’

  ‘Which came first, I wonder—the chicken or the egg?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Martha was growing impatient. ‘Roger, I don’t really see—’

  ‘Hasn’t it ever occurred to you to wonder why Sarah doesn’t like your husband?’

  ‘Well—yes.’ Martha heaved a deep sigh. ‘But I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I know that Sarah was attracted to Dion in the beginning, and he turned her off, but that was long before we got married.’

  Roger arched his brows. ‘Very good. Very shrewd. Very perceptive.’

  ‘Stop mocking me, Roger! Sarah and I don’t have any secrets from one another. Sarah’s attitude towards Dion is totally concerned with his behaviour towards me! She always said it wouldn’t work—my marrying him, and she was right. Rich—and Greek; it was an impossible combination.’

  ‘You think so?’ Roger did not sound convinced.

  ‘I know so, don’t I?’ Martha emptied the dish water away, and began putting the clean dishes away. ‘I know you mean well, Roger, but you don’t understand.’

  Roger shrugged, perching on the comer of the kitchen table. ‘Well? Are you going to tell me that you didn’t see your husband?’

  Martha hesitated, ‘No. I saw him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh, Roger…’ Martha’s nerves were almost at breaking point. ‘I’d really rather not talk about it right now. Do you mind? It’s been a long day, and I’ve still to go round and apologise to Mrs Bennett.’

  ‘Mrs Bennett—ah, yes,’ Roger nodded. ‘Another of Sarah’s casualties.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Roger got off the table. ‘I’d better b
e going. I’ve got a lecture at nine o’clock in the morning, and I must make some notes. By the way, as this trip to Greece doesn’t look like it’s coming off, how would you like a few weeks in Ireland instead? They’ve discovered the wreck of a Spanish galleon off the west coast, and I thought it might make an interesting entry in my book.’

  Roger had been writing a book about wrecks and wrecking for the past three years that Martha knew of, but although she doubted it would ever be published, the pleasure it gave him more than made up for the time it consumed.

  Now Martha looked at him gratefully, but she shook her head when he urged her to agree. ‘You can’t take all of us around with you, everywhere you go!’ she protested. ‘You go and enjoy yourself. I’ll type up your notes when you get back.’

  ‘And what will you do for the long weeks of the vacation?’ asked Roger with asperity. ‘Walk to the park? Take Josy to the zoo? Visit the museum?’ He paused. ‘Martha, don’t worry about the expense. I can afford it. I get a good salary, and my parents didn’t exactly leave me penniless. I like doing this for you—and for Sarah, believe it or not. When she’s not using that tongue of hers to cut people to pieces, she’s quite an intelligent companion. Do you know we’ve played chess every night since you’ve been away?’

  ‘I’ve only been away two nights,’ remarked Martha dryly, and Roger’s comment that it only seemed like twice that time successfully restored the sense of balance between them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARTHA did not tell Sarah that night about meeting Dion at Mycos.

  Lying in bed later, she chided herself for the coward she was, but her conversation with Roger had convinced her she was not yet ready to face any further advice on the subject. She needed time—time to think, and time to plan, and time to wonder what she would do, if her husband chose to force the issue. She had no illusions that she had heard the last of the affair. Dion was not a man like that. And discussing the matter with Sarah would only cause them both unnecessary pain.

  The evening had been taken up, in any case, with placating Mrs Bennett. That lady was much put out at being accused of stealing, and the complaints she had to make about Sarah rang all too true in the face of her sister’s admissions.

  But Martha succeeded in making her see that without her help, Josy would be obliged to leave her play school, and until she started at the local primary school after the summer holidays, she would be confined to the company of an invalid for the better part of the day.

  ‘Well, I’ll continue to take her to school, Mrs Connell,’ she said, affording her the married status as a gesture of respect, even though she knew nothing of Martha’s background. ‘But I won’t say I’ll get tea for the lassie, if you’re to be working late. Not at Meredith Road anyway. I could give her a sandwich here, if you like, when it’s necessary, but I won’t be accused of interfering again, not when all I’ve ever tried to do was to be of assistance.’

  ‘I understand that, Mrs Bennett.’ Martha was only too relieved to hear that Josy was not about to suffer for Sarah’s hasty accusations, and she had returned home feeling slightly less distrait than when she had left.

  It was a relief to get back to work, and the reassuring surroundings of the university, and during the next couple of days, Martha struggled to catch up on the time she had lost. Most of the students had already left, but the principal, for whom she worked, kept her busy with the paperwork involved in the winding down of the academic year. She was glad of the hectic activity. It kept her mind from other things, and when she walked home from the station on Friday evening, she felt reasonably satisfied with her efforts.

  The sight of a foreign-looking green sports car, parked at the kerb outside the house, dispelled her mood abruptly. The residents of Meredith Road did not drive expensive Italian sports cars, and she remembered too well the distinctive lines of a Ferrari to mistake its wide-tyred elegance.

  She felt like turning and running, but that would be futile. Besides, Josy was in that house, Josy would be there now, chatting away as she always did, full of the confidence that Martha had instilled in her, probably unaware of the implications of the situation. But Sarah would know, she would be aware, and remembering her sister, Martha broke into a run.

  She burst into the living room, gasping for breath, and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of her sister, sitting alone in her chair, a tray of tea on the table beside her. Apart from her sister, the room was empty, and Martha’s heart pounded heavily in her chest.

  ‘Where’s Josy?’ she asked, without giving Sarah a chance to say anything. ‘Where is she? I saw a car outside. A Ferrari. I thought—I thought—’

  ‘Yes? What did you think?’ Sarah enquired coldly, turning chilly eyes in her sister’s direction. ‘That Dion was here? That he had arrived to take possession of his daughter?’

  Martha’s shoulders sagged. ‘He is here?’

  ‘Not at this moment, no.’ Sarah’s hands curled and uncurled about the arms of her chair, revealing her agitation. ‘I believe they’ve gone to the park, though I don’t know which one—’

  ‘You let Dion take Josy…Martha began accusingly, and then broke off as Sarah’s balled fist came down hard on the table.

  ‘Yes,’ she said furiously. ‘Yes, I let him. What else was I supposed to do? If you don’t choose to take me into your confidence, how am I supposed to defend myself when—when that man comes here, unexpected and unannounced?’

  ‘I wanted to tell you, Sarah,’ Martha exclaimed wearily. ‘But I needed time…’

  ‘Well, you’ve got time now. All the time you need, I shouldn’t wonder. He tells me that you admitted that the child was his. You admitted it, Martha. After all you said!’

  Martha shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and then back again, glancing round nervously towards the door, pacing restlessly across to the screened fireplace.

  ‘You’d better tell me what happened,’ she said, trying to think what she was going to do now that the worst had happened, but Sarah had her own opinions about that.

  ‘I think you ought to tell me how Dion came to learn about Josy’s parentage!’ she declared grimly. ‘My God! You must have been dying to tell him the truth. You couldn’t wait to spill it, could you? And after everything that’s happened! I don’t understand you, Martha, I don’t understand you at all.’

  Martha sighed. ‘It wasn’t like that, Sarah. I didn’t just—tell him.’

  ‘No? What happened? Did he seduce you? Did he spend the nights at the hotel with you? Was it all arranged before you left?’

  ‘No!’ Martha felt a rising sense of impatience, which she tried to control. ‘You know I never corresponded with Dion. You saw the letters. It was his father I wrote to.’

  ‘Huh!’ Sarah sounded unconvinced. ‘Are you telling me his father got the information out of you? What did he do? Put you on the rack, or just apply the thumbscrews?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Sarah!’

  ‘What’s so silly? If you didn’t see Dion—’

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t see him.’

  ‘I see. So you did.’

  ‘All right—yes.’

  Sarah sighed now. ‘You fool!’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know?’ Martha could feel the hot prick of tears behind her eyes. But this was not the time for weeping, and she forced them back. ‘Now tell me, where are they? Dion doesn’t know London all that well. And that is his car outside, isn’t it?’

  Sarah shrugged, her expression sullen. ‘Josy said she would show him the way,’ she admitted.

  ‘Then that means the recreation ground,’ declared Martha, checking her flushed cheeks in the mirror. ‘I’ll go and look for them. How long have they been gone?’

  ‘Not long. Twenty minutes, at the most. Your—husband didn’t arrive until after five.’

  ‘After five,’ echoed Martha thoughtfully, remembering the wedding. He must have left Athens immediately afterwards.

  She moved towards the door, but be
fore she left Sarah exclaimed: ‘You’re not going to let him take Josy, are you?’ and Martha felt the deepening weight of the responsibilities that faced her.

  ‘No,’ she said now. ‘Not if I can help it. But…’ She brete off abruptly. ‘Does Josy—I mean, did she know who—who Dion was? Did he tell her?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Sarah replied shortly. ‘She just took a fancy to him, you know the way she does. And,’ more acidly, ‘obviously Dion didn’t find this place to his liking.’

  Martha nodded, and let herself out of the door again. Leaving the house, she took the footpath that led between the houses halfway down Meredith Road, and followed the short cut along the back of the tennis courts to the open expanse of the playing fields.

  It was a warm evening, and there were lots of children and their parents around the infants’ recreation area. The sand-pit was occupied, and a small queue of toddlers were lined up beside the slide, waiting to climb the iron steps. But Josy was not among them, even though the slide was her favourite piece of apparatus, and Martha looked about her anxiously, wondering if she had mistaken their destination.

  She saw Dion suddenly, across the expanse of turf, where an impromptu football match was in progress. He was in the middle of a group of small boys, apparently directing them in the skills of controlling the ball, while Josy stood to one side, holding his coat, apparently well pleased with this unexpected bid for notoriety.

  Martha’s step faltered before the undoubted popularity of her husband, and the anxiety she had suffered for years over depriving Josy of her father’s presence swelled to unmanagable proportions. How could she think that she had compensated for the wealth and security the Myconos’ could offer? What could she honestly offer her daughter that Dion could not? Love, perhaps. Possession was not love, as she had learned to her cost, but was that enough? Would Josy have reproached her in years to come if circumstances had not been taken so completely out of her hands?

  Dion looked up at that moment and saw her, and her involuntary withdrawal was thwarted. With a word to Josy, he directed her attention towards Martha, and then took his jacket from the child and swung his arms into the sleeves as she came charging across the grass towards her mother. Martha’s eyes lingered for a few moments longer on her husband, reluctantly acknowledging his indolent attraction. The narrow pants of his dark suit drew attention to the leanness of his hips, and the matching waistcoat hugged the flat contours of his stomach. His white shirt was quickly concealed as he shrugged into his jacket, but not before she had admired its pristine whiteness. His tailor obviously enjoyed his task, and she was aware of the shortcomings of her own navy linen. But the principal objected to his staff attracting the attention of the students, and in consequence, Martha chose the most unassuming garments for work.